TRANSLATED FROM HINDI BY SASWATI SAHA
To a Woman who is Home Alone
You must forget your friendship with the ocean
And those wintry days
That you wore like a ring around your finger
Tossing into the air and the sky
Better still, refuse to recognize
The bird that flew with Spring
Laced up in its wings…
Now your husband is not at home
Take a shower, a long relaxing one
Stand in front of the mirror
Take your clothes off
Then wear them back again
Stare at the mirror so hard
That
It almost cracks from side to side
But before it cracks
Withdraw your shadow
It is the key to a peaceful home
For he is not gone forever
Only until evening
So
Lost in your thoughts go off to sleep
Or else, if your heart desires
Empty your baggage on the middle of the floor
Then looking intently at each of its objects
Put your thoughts back to the places where they belong
He will be back anytime now
Put the stove on, prepare some snacks
And collect yourself…like an unsullied home
Is your husband a domestic man?
This is a redundant question to ask
But he may be suspicious
That’s why
You must wait for him to return
Don’t stand in the balcony though
Stay within your room, keeping the track of time…
Do not slice the onions
Until he is back
Sliced onions
May invite a whiff of doubt
Instead
Slam a few good books on the bed
Reading these are not absolutely necessary
But it’s good to create an impression
That you read these when alone…
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Food Goddess
Four of them sit together: dinner time
All conscious, controlling their portions
The three children, sensible too
Drinking water every now and then
The father faking burps
The one serving is no less than a goddess
There is a lot left in here
I had a late lunch—
She assures as she serves
Mother was always the last to eat
The daal left for her was
A handful of water: a disgraceful chaos
And in the casserole
Like a vapour of the moon,
An umbra of a roti
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Mother Served Food
Those days seem distant now
When I was never full unless mother served me
Those days slipped like a glistening brass bucket
Into an abysmal depth of a water well
And perhaps
Still lay buried deep
Then came those days when
In her presence,
Swallowing a single morsel was difficult
Although
She never forgot to ladle out ghee
For her youngest jobless son
She never asked where I wandered all day
Or how could I afford my tobacco and paan
Often, her generous heart would
Refill my plate again and again
And hanging my head over the plate
I would immerse myself
In the resounding noise
Of chewing broken pieces of bread
She knew every bit of my hunger and thirst
So
Whenever I got up half-full
She would murmur to herself
Scrubbing dishes in the kitchen
While
Hiding in the balcony,
My ears would lap up every word she’d utter
Her final grumbles for God’s sake
Sounded the most menacing
Then
I would open the door
And surrender myself
To the solitude and darkness
Of late-night streets
Now, those days too must be lying
In the abysmal depth of that water well
Like a heavy iron bucket
These days
Eating with my wife and children
The respite and restlessness of that dinner table
Has disappeared
Now we eat on our own
Unbothered about others
But at times
When we have methi bhaji or besan
A pair of vigilant eyes
And the familiar voice
That knew every bit of my hunger and thirst
Floats around me
And then
Gulping down my food with water
I dive for a while
Into the abysmal depths of that water well
Looking for those lost buckets.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also read, To Leave in the Afternoon by Ubah Cristina Ali Farah, translated from Italian by the author, and published in The Antonym.
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